


Baser Instincts

by Batsymomma11



Series: Blark Files [9]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Never Enough Communicating, sappy idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 00:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17293919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Clark and Bruce aren't exactly together, but they aren't exactly...not either. Clark finds himself struggling with a vicious jealous-streak when it appears he and Bruce aren't on the same page.





	Baser Instincts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanya/gifts).



> I do not own DC or its characters. I do own this story.
> 
> Thank you Tanya for the prompt: jealous Clark. I hope this is something of what you were looking for :)
> 
> Enjoy!

                Clark could count on one hand the amount of times he’d been jealous in his life.

                He’d never considered himself possessive or demanding. In fact, he was quite the opposite. Overly trusting. Giving to the point of hurting himself before admitting there was something he needed or wanted. Clark was so averse to the green-eyed monster, so unfamiliar with having to deal with it, that it took him completely by surprise.

                Like being punched in the back of the head. Painful and completely uncalled for.

                Clark had been jealous when his middle school crush picked Joey Robinson to dance with in the Winter formal rather than him. He’d been jealous when Lana Lang had spurned his feeble attempts at wooing her and had easily gone to Whitney instead, who was blond and blue-eyed and perfect. Clark had been jealous too when Lois started dating a fellow investigative reporter from the Sun Times far too soon after their break-up to be considered polite.

                He thought he’d experienced jealousy. Thought he understood it. But then there was—this. This fetid screaming anger. This frustrating sizzle in his arms and legs, his stomach and the back of his throat. He felt sick to his stomach. Flooded with both righteous indignation and snarling hurt.  

                And the worst of it was, Clark had no leg to stand on.

                Clinically, despite the war drums beating behind his eyes and the jacked-up blood pressure making his pulse soar, he knew he had no claim to him. He had no right to be upset. There was nothing about this situation that should suggest he had any reason to be jealous. None at all.

                Bruce laughed. A genuine, heartfelt, kind laugh. The sort that Clark usually heard when it was just the two of them, when Bruce had let his guard down and everything fuzzed out at the seams.

                And Clark saw red. No, green. Everything was in sickly shades of green and he was ashamed of himself for it. Because this wasn’t like him. It wasn’t like him to be possessive and foolish like this. Especially not where Bruce was concerned. Bruce was his best friend. But that didn’t mean he owned the man. He could enjoy other people and did, often. Clark couldn’t count the times he’d opened the Sunday paper and seen Bruce’s smiling visage, with a drunken smile and a half-naked woman draped over his front. Even if most of those pictures were lies, Clark knew that occasionally Bruce took someone home. He slept with people; men or women, any color. Bruce wasn’t loose by any stretch of the imagination when it came to who he invited into bed with him, but he wasn’t a prude. Not at all.

                It was clear over the years that Bruce liked sex and had no problem finding it. That had never bothered Clark before. At least, not like this. Never to this degree.

                Clark’s gaze flickered across the glossy flooring, over crisp tuxedo jackets and sequined ballgowns and he felt his eyes burn.

                Bruce had a hand on Selina Kyle’s low back. It was an intimate pose. A hold that suggested they knew each other well, quite well, in fact. And Clark should know. Because Bruce had told him the first time he’d slept with Selina. He’d admitted it late one night over a bottle of Glenfiddich after a particularly foul night of patrolling that left him with a couple broken ribs and a gash the size of a fist on his hip. Clark had listened, had felt—mildly irritated with him?

                Yes, that was true too. But that had been years ago. And this was nothing like then.

                This felt—an awful lot like Bruce was personally offending him. Trying to hurt him by touching Selina like they were still sleeping together. But Clark knew they weren’t. Because Bruce had told him that too. Over the many years of their friendship, Clark had been privy to nearly all of Bruce’s exploits. He’d had front row seats because Bruce had allowed him to. Because they told each other things, like men do when they share beers and brats on a hot summer afternoon over a barbecue. And it wasn’t one-sided, Clark always told Bruce who he was dating. He told him everything about that person, mostly because Bruce usually asked. He also usually insisted upon background checks that should be laughable considering Clark was Superman. But Clark always let him. And Bruce always did them.

                Clark and Bruce had an easy camaraderie that had been formed through battle, blood, and a shared interest in justice. But they’d always had something more too. Something, just a tad stronger than the average friendship. They’d never named what that thing was. Never crossed that line. Clark was at the manor sometimes more often than his apartment in Metropolis. If Bruce was in town, he always dropped by, usually unannounced.

                Bruce had a key to his apartment. Left a tooth brush in his bathroom. Clark could always find his favorite creamer in Bruce’s fridge and a pair of pajamas in his size was kept in the guest bedroom in case he ever stayed over.

                They alternated bringing each other coffee for the bi-weekly JLA meetings, went to their favorite diner exactly halfway between Metropolis and Gotham every Sunday night. If someone asked what Bruce’s favorite color was, what sort of cologne he liked or if he liked ketchup on his hamburger, Clark could tell them. And Bruce could do the same.

                If, over the last two years, things had been slow in Clark’s dating life, that just meant he was going through a lull. Or so, Clark had told himself. It had nothing to do with Bruce. It had nothing to do with how he’d stopped looking at anyone else and had become simply content to be at Bruce’s side. In any capacity.

                Bruce hadn’t dated anyone seriously in years. A secret deadly part of Clark had apparently taken that as some sort of promise. Some sort of—agreement between the two of them. With neither of them dating anyone else, they were sort of unofficially, official. They were, whatever they were, _exclusively_.

                When really examined, when really thought about and dissected, Clark felt like a fool. Because all these emotions he’d built up, all of these commitments he’d made in his mind to Bruce and Bruce to him, were nothing but tissue paper in a storm. Easily shredded because they weren’t even real.

                And Bruce was kissing Selina Kyle’s cheek. He was touching her, laughing with her, oblivious to Clark’s darkening expression on the side of the other room. Because he and Bruce weren’t an item. Not even a platonic one. They were friends. They were colleagues. Sure, Clark shared everything with him and Bruce had told him his darkest secrets, but that didn’t really mean anything outside the bounds of friendship. That didn’t mean anything at all.

                Clark forced his gaze away from the pretty pair, found a waiter walking by with glasses of sparkling champagne and took one. It wouldn’t help, but it gave him something to do with his hands. He downed the glass quickly, took another, then started meandering towards the scent of fresh cool air. It was winter in Gotham and the cold wind would feel biting on his skin. Clark welcomed it.

                He got to the French doors that were usually kept locked during this time of year and pushed his way onto the balcony. Everything was lightly dusted in crystalline snow. A blanket of frosting undisturbed and unaware.

                Clark meandered through it, finished his second glass of champagne then climbed onto the balcony rail and sat with his feet dangling over sixty floors of glass. No one seemed brave enough to face the cold, not even for a quick smoke, so Clark was alone. The party was muffled behind the glass doors and Clark could pretend he couldn’t hear anything, if he closed his eyes and drifted.

                The French doors opened at his back after a few moments, a blast of music fluttered out then grew muffled again. Someone had come to smoke after all.

                “Clark?”

                Clark jerked at the voice, “What are you doing out here? It’s cold.”

                He couldn’t do this right now. He couldn’t talk to him and not react.

                “Yes,” Bruce was moving across the snow, crunching his way over to the balcony ledge where Clark was sitting, and Clark wasn’t ready to face him. He didn’t have his feelings under control. He wasn’t—thinking clearly yet. “Why did you leave?”

                “It got stuffy in there.”

                “You’re drinking champagne?”

                Clark risked a glance at Bruce, saw those cutting gray eyes flickering over him, assessing and frowning at him. “I was thirsty.”

                “You hate champagne.”

                “No, I don’t.”

                Bruce lifted a brow in obvious disagreement, folded his arms over his middle as a gust of frigid air ruffled his hair and snuck inside his dinner jacket. “Are you—alright?”

                “Why wouldn’t I be?” Clark’s tone came out sharp. Far too sharp to be fine and he quickly looked away when Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

                “Clark—”

                “I’m alright Bruce. Go back and enjoy the party. Selina looks ravishing tonight and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”

                There was a silence, a very damning silence and Clark had to close his eyes against it. Had to fist his hands in his lap and breathe through the urge to snap at Bruce to go away. Let him lick his wounds in peace. He’d done this to himself and he would prefer to mope alone.

                Contrary to the feelings he was experiencing in the ballroom, Clark didn’t in fact want to choke Bruce to death for touching someone other than him. He didn’t want to hurt him at all.

                And if Bruce didn’t leave him be, he might.

                “Selina had to use the lady’s room. She’ll be busy for a few moments at least.”

                “There are plenty of other women who would love your attention then.”

                A loaded pause, a long, measured look. “What does that mean, Clark?”

                Clark sighed, tipped his head back and let snowflakes land on his feverish neck and face, felt the green-eyed monster swelling like a rabid animal with a bone in his stomach and struggled to make it leave.

                “It means nothing.”

                “It means something. Why are you angry with me?”

                “I’m not angry.”

                “You’re furious.”

                “Bruce,” Clark snapped, finally really looking at the man, letting himself take in all the little details. The crow’s feet, the tanned skin, the little scar at the corner of his right brow, the—lipstick stain on his cheek.

                Clark felt sick again.

                “I don’t want to talk right now. In fact, I think I’m just going to head home.”

                “It’s still early—”

                “No, I’m tired. I’m just going to go,” Clark climbed off the rail, dusted futilely at his damp trousers then pasted on a weak smile. “It was a lovely party. Tell Selina I said hi.”

                If Clark really expected he’d be allowed to leave, he was corrected of that notion straight away when Bruce’s hand bit into his arm and stopped him, jerked him back around. Bruce was glaring up at him, all pretense of playing nice gone.

                “What the hell is your problem with me, Clark?”

                “My problem?” Clark hissed, ripping his arm easily out of Bruce’s grasp, “My problem?”

                Bruce swallowed, backed up a step, glanced at the doors of the balcony like he was worried they might get caught out here. Clark wasn’t even aware that he’d started floating and was a few inches off the ground.

                “I don’t have a problem. How could I? That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?”

                “You’re not making any sense.”

                “No,” Clark spat, scrubbing both hands down his face, “I’m not. It’s why I need to go. I’m going to hurt you if I’m not careful.”

                “Clark, talk to me. Help me understand.”

                There could be nothing to be gained from Clark stepping closer, backing Bruce up into the balcony, leaving no space between them. But apparently Clark’s body was no longer under his command, because that was exactly what it was doing. When Clark lifted a hand, Bruce’s breath stuttered, shocked and confused when a thumb brushed roughly over a cheekbone and removed that smudge of red lipstick that marred skin that didn’t belong to him. The tops of Bruce’s ears were pink.

                Clark’s eyes burned again. His body hummed with the infernal need to either punish Bruce for making him feel like this or stake his claim. He couldn’t do either.

                “Clark?” Bruce’s voice was strained and even through the fog of jealousy Clark could hear it was tremulous. Shaking.

                It should have been like throwing up a stop sign. It should have been a warning to tread lightly, to be careful. It wasn’t. Clark couldn’t stop himself.

                “You shouldn’t let them kiss you when they wear red lipstick. It’s not your color.” His voice was a threat. Not a trace of kindness in it. Anger, pain, ugliness. That’s all it was, and Bruce would hear it. He’d know right away what had happened.

                Bruce blinked, glanced at Clark’s thumb which was smeared with the red, then stared up at Clark, “Selina likes red.”

                “I know.”

                “She only kissed my cheek. Everyone does at these sorts of parties. It’s not a big deal. It doesn’t—it doesn’t mean anything.”

                “Doesn’t it?” Clark whispered, still too close, still breathing in Bruce’s cologne and his skin. He was so close, he could dip and take Bruce’s mouth. He could sear his taste into Bruce and remind him who he should belong to. That only Clark should be the one to touch him. Ever. “You and Selina have a past. You have a long history. You were touching her.”

                Bruce’s eyes flickered over Clark’s face, he swallowed roughly. There was a second dialogue happening between them that wasn’t being spoken but it felt like Clark was standing on quicksand. “I touch everyone. It’s part of the show. It’s part of what I do. You know that,” Bruce licked his lips, a nervous gesture that brought all of Clark’s blood south and frayed his thoughts into scattered bees. “She doesn’t mean anything. She stopped meaning something a long time ago.”

                “I didn’t like you touching her. I didn’t like her touching you.”

                It felt good to have the grain of truth between them. It felt, like freeing a bit of the pressure on the bands of steel wrapping his ribs and lungs, squeezing his breath down to the size of a quarter.

                “Why?” Bruce’s voice had dropped to a strangled whisper.

                “It felt—wrong,” Clark could barely breathe. He was too close, getting closer, leaning in. Their lips were almost brushing.  

                “It did?”

                Clark sucked in a breath, started to back up. Bruce caught his hand, warm callouses and long fingers grabbing on too hard. It sent skitters of electricity rushing up Clark’s spine. Made him blink stupidly at Bruce. Were they really doing this? Was it all really coming to a head?

                Isn’t that what he wanted?

                “Wait, Clark. Just—wait. What felt wrong about it? Why did—why were you upset about Selina and I touching?”

                “Don’t Bruce.”

                “Why not?” Bruce shifted, their fronts brushed, satin on satin.

                “Don’t make me spell it out.”

                Bruce shook his head slowly, looked down at his toes. “Maybe I need you to. Maybe I need to hear it. Maybe I’ve been waiting to hear it.”

                Clark’s stomach dropped to his toes. Hope flared in his middle—flimsy, frightening. God, he was so scared. But before he could stop himself the words were coming out, spilling like toxic sewage from his lips and there was no way to take them back.

                “You want me to admit I was jealous? That I wanted to tear your arm off when it was on Selina’s ass? Or that seeing her lipstick on your face makes me want to strangle the both of you? Why, for some sort of ego boost?”

                Oh God.

                Friendship? No more. He’d already gone over the line they didn’t speak about. He’d stomped over it, slashed it, and set it on fire.

                “No, Clark, I—”

                “I don’t know if I can do this.”

                Bruce’s hand had never left his, was still trapping him like a moth to flame. “Why not? Haven’t we—isn’t this what you want?”

                “Bruce, for God’s sake.”

                “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I care about you. You know that.”

                “Yes,” Clark sniffed, “I know it. We both know it. But we don’t talk about ‘it’ Bruce. We don’t ever say what the hell we are. It’s maddening. And seeing you in there, seeing you draped all over her, it was like setting myself on fire. I can’t—I can’t do that. I’m just realizing that I can’t and it’s an ugly realization.”

                “None of them mean anything to me, Clark. You know that. I thought you understood that after all these years.”

                “In the back of my mind, yes. I think I do. But right now, I’m too angry to see reason.”

                Bruce was clenching his jaw, worrying a seam on his trousers, “What do you want from me? From,” he gestured between them, “this?”

                Clark felt like his chest was going to explode. It was like dancing over hot coals. The fear of mis-stepping was massive and boiling. “Bruce, what have we been doing all these years? What are we exactly?”

                It was too late to back out. He’d already admitted he had feelings that went beyond friendship. That much was absolutely obvious. But then again, so had Bruce. Sort of. They’d both been quietly admitting as much for years.

                There was little if any pause between Bruce staring at him beneath a wash of swirling snow flakes and him stretching up to kiss Clark. It was brief and warm. Chaste.

                Not long enough.

                Clark grabbed on, dragged Bruce back and Bruce gave a startled groan sinking into the embrace, all but melting into it. They kissed like teenagers for breathless moments. All tongue and lips and clashing teeth. Absolutely no finesse. Hands groped at restrictive clothing and steam rose from their panting breath in a cloud that would have been comical, had anyone bothered to look out the frosted window panes to the balcony.

                “Bruce,” Clark breathed in between kisses, trying to bring his mind back, trying to form a coherent thought past the roaring in his ears. “I’m sorry.”

                “It’s not your fault,” Bruce mumbled, nibbling Clark’s ear, his neck.

                Clark couldn’t do this and think at the same time. He could do a great many things. Being kissed by Bruce like this and managing a conversation still, was not one of them. He pushed gently on Bruce, disengaging enough to catch his breath then touched his forehead to Bruce’s. In his wildest imaginings, he never would have thought the night would be ending like this.

                With Bruce in his arms.

                “I got jealous because I thought we were—exclusive. Because in my mind, I built this relationship between us,” Clark’s voice was strained, weakened by the kiss and the rush of emotions that came with it. He was perilously close to tears, “In my head, we were together. We didn’t have a name for it and maybe we never went over the physical line, but I had this idea that at some point we’d cross that bridge when we got to it. We were just doing everything really slowly.”

                Bruce’s eyes were closed. His lashes dark shadows on the alabaster of his cheeks. Snowflakes were caught in them, dampening his skin. He couldn’t have looked more attractive. The silence between them should have been worrying. Would have been, moments ago. But not now. Not with Bruce’s taste in his mouth, Bruce’s head still touching his, their bodies still pressed close and yearning.

                “I haven’t dated anyone in years, Clark.”

                “I know. Neither have I,” Clark whispered, his throat so tight it hurt to speak.

                “I haven’t dated anyone because I wasn’t interested. Because I was with you. We might not have ever said out loud what we are to each other, but we said enough. And I—I was happy with whatever you were willing to give me. I didn’t think you wanted any more from me. I didn’t think you ever would and I was OK with that. But I’ve always wanted—I’ve always wanted more, Clark.”

                “My God, Bruce—what have we been waiting for?”

                Bruce’s eyes opened, mirth and relief, joy too, shining in their opalescent depths. His laugh was a deep rumble between them and it sounded a little hoarse. He’d never looked more inviting or open. More perfect.

                “I don’t know.”

                “I want it all.”

                Bruce’s chin tipped up, his eyes assessing, “Then you can have it all, Clark.”

                “Yeah?” Clark’s voice was dark, his arms moving to band around Bruce’s middle, tying them together.

                “Yes. My penthouse is close. Not even a mile from here.”

                “Mmm,” Clark nuzzled into Bruce’s neck, had the exquisite pleasure of watching Bruce’s eyelids flutter as he did so, then, “I need a promise though.”

                “Anything, Clark.”

                “No more red lipstick.”

                Bruce blinked at him, “Are you serious? I can’t just—”

                Clark laughed, “As long as you remember who you’re going home with at the end of the night, I’ll manage to control my baser instincts.”

                “Baser instincts?”

                “Yes,” Clark sealed his mouth over Bruce’s, kissing him languidly, “Let me show you what I mean.”


End file.
